Author: Alex

“They had ignorantly done something (I forget what) in the town, which barely brought them within the operation of the law. Every human institution (Justice included) will stretch a little, if you only pull it the right way.” (94)

This quote from the Moonstone seems to sum up high society, both then and now, in a nutshell. If you have the right amount of money, or the right connections, you can essentially get away with anything. The fact that this line appears in a story about something being stolen, and then (presumably) found, leading (again, presumably) to the arrest of the perpetrator, is kind of ironic. Is this not a detective story? Do those not strive to uphold, and even champion, justice and the law?

According to “Jane Eyre”, Victorians took the law pretty seriously, too; Rochester hid and secretly cared for Bertha because it was illegal to divorce an insane person back then. He had massive respect for the law and morality, as did Jane, since neither of them really pursued the potential relationship between them until Bertha was out of the picture. Even in the other books we read (“Tale of Two Cities”, most notably) the law and justice (however warped that latter ideal may end up being) were central pillars of the stories, and were pivotal in driving them forward.

So why, then, does “The Moonstone” seem to treat it with such triviality? It could be because, in this case, nearly everyone is related to high society in some way. Nearly all of our central characters have some sort of upper-class affiliation, because otherwise, how would they even know anything about the moonstone? Previously, most of our characters have either been middle-class, or lower-class (with most of them coming from the former). The law is harsher to them. It’s not as harsh to the upper class because, as the quote above states, the law will easily bend if you pull it in the right way; in other words, if you have the connections, you’re above the law.

Could this be a criticism of Victorian high society. with a pompous and arrogant statement such as this in a story that (again, presumably) ends with the triumph of the law? That seems to be the likely answer. But what if the person who stole the moonstone actually gets away with it? Then what does this quote imply? What does it mean for society’s relationship with the law? Does it strengthen it, weaken it, or invalidate it completely? I don’t know how the story ends, so I can’t really say. But what I can say is that I hope it ends with the thief getting away with it, because then “The Moonstone” and its concept of law and justice suddenly stands in a stark and very intriguing contrast to everything else we’ve read thus far.

“There is something inhuman in the suggestion of an equivalency between postcolonial management of the nineteenth-century novel and nineteenth-century administration of empire–as if the “native” were only ever a body of words, or as if the novel could suffer the kinds of oppression people can.”

The above passage from Erin O’Connor’s attack essay in retaliation to Spivak’s own essay is, as the title of this post suggests, asinine. I’ll begin this by saying that I could be 100% wrong on what Erin is trying to say here, but based on the tone and wording that she chooses to use, it kinda seems like she’s trying to say that Jane Eyre can’t possibly possess an inkling of postcolonial feminism simply because she isn’t real. And to make such a statement is, to be quite honest, pretty ignorant of her.

Books and writing, as with many other art forms, have long been used as ways to express and bring attention to oppression. Erin is doing the exact same thing in her essay, which attacks Spivak for unknowingly attacking her own ideas. Is it logical to say that Jane Eyre doesn’t experience real oppression because she isn’t a real person? Technically, yes. But what about Charlotte Bronte? She was certainly very real, and was most certainly, along with many other women at the time, a victim of female oppression. It is entirely possible–and in fact, even pretty much confirmed–that Bronte wrote a lot of herself into the character of Jane Eyre. Now, be that as it may, there is a little bit of merit to Erin’s argument. The native in question is, I assume, Bertha, or rather, what Bertha represents: colored women being mistreated by white society. Erin feels that the “native” is being reduced to “a body of words,” that their stories are being overshadowed/transformed into something different by the white feminism of Jane Eyre. As aforementioned, there is merit to this argument; but not enough. To call a comparison between Jane Eyre’s treatment of postcolonial feminism and society’s treatment of postcolonial feminism “inhuman” is absurd.

Primarily, this is because Bronte wrote this story as a piece of postcolonial feminism: her voice as a woman made heard through literature, in 1847. It was quite a different time. Jane Eyre is a reflection of the postcolonial feminism of the times. By calling a comparison between the two “inhuman”, as Erin seems to be wont to do, appears (to me, at the very least; I would like to stress that this is an opinion based off of a personal interpretation) to be contradicting her own argument of Jane Eyre not being explicitly feminist. Because, if we think about it, it’s really not. The novel would rather have us uphold Jane over Bertha, and Erin, it seems, wouldn’t have us do that; she would have us place them on the same level. A noble and justified pursuit, to be sure. It is also something that we, as educated readers in the 21st century, are already capable of doing. To attack Spivak as she does, and then to go and contradict herself as she does here, only goes to show Erin’s lack of understanding of not only Spivak’s argument, but her own, as well.

*Sorry for the rant-y tone, but Erin O’Connor’s essay really ground my gears. I had to say something.*

“…narratology has in practice been too exclusively concerned with the identification of minimal narrative units and paradigmatic structures; it has too much neglected the temporal dynamics that shape narratives in our reading of them, the play of desire in time that makes us turn pages and strive towards narrative ends.”

This particular quote from Brooks’ article about reading for plot has really stuck with me ever since I read it while we were discussing the piece in class. Admittedly, it first only did so because I was really confused as to what it was actually trying to tell me (academia is truly in love with big, complicated words). The more I read it, the more I started to get the impression that this was what it was trying to say: people who are too focused on narrative structures when they read, often search for both minute details and grand symbolic imagery alike, and rely on a steady advancement of the narrative to maintain their interest in the plot; whereas those who read purely for plot are satisfied simply with the knowledge that the plot will, eventually, advance, and that’s what keeps them turning the pages. Now, I could be completely and totally wrong, but that’s just the way I see it.

And honestly? Brooks has a point, and that’s probably why nobody in this day and age is really capable of successfully reading authors like Henry James. All of the books and short stories and music videos and movies–basically just anything with a narrative plot–that we’re exposed to these days have plenty of those minute narrative details and grand symbolic imagery to keep us satiated as we drift from plot point to plot point. Authors like Henry James, however, as well as other classical authors like James Joyce or Herman Melville seem to write specifically for readers who are capable of seeing the big picture when going into a story–those who stay interested in the story just because the story interests them.

The phrase “reading for plot”, then, takes on a new meaning with authors like James because when the plot is a summary of what’s happening, and in cases like Daisy Miller, you’re quite literally reading just to find out what happens. There’s no minute plot details that all tie together in some big, flashy reveal at the end, like so many modern fantasy novels. There’s no fateful intertwining of multiple lives that culminate in a huge climactic moment like in A Tale of Two Cities. It’s just a story that happens, in the lives of the characters that James has created, and if you want to read Henry James you have to be okay with that.

In all likelihood, that’s probably the reason why many people nowadays have such difficulty reading Henry James “for the plot” (as Brooks, more or less, says so himself). It’s because James doesn’t write the kinds of plots we’re used to. He doesn’t write the sort of heart-pounding, page-turning, can’t-put-it-down-because-you-have-to-know-what-happens-next plots. In the case of Daisy Miller, and a few of his other stories as well, he’s content with writing a simple slice-of-life plot that has no overall symbolic meaning beyond the story itself. It’s just a nice little story about Winterbourne and his romantic misadventures with Daisy. Nothing more, nothing less. And there’s nothing wrong with us for possibly not being able to enjoy that; it’s simply just not what we’re used to.

(And, to be clear, I hated reading this as much as the next guy, because I, too, want a more solid plot in my writing.)

“‘There is a great crowd coming one day into our lives, if that be so,’ Sydney Carton struck in, in his moody way. The footsteps were incessant, and the hurry of them became more and more rapid. The corner echoed and re-echoed with the tread of feet; some, as it seemed, under the windows; some, as it seemed, in the room; some coming, some going, some breaking off, some stopping altogether; all in the distant streets, and not one within sight.” (Dickens, 98)

These ghostly footsteps seem to be a heavily recurring theme in Dickens’ writing, as they keep popping up all over the place. The characters seem to have different beliefs as to what these footsteps mean: Lucie believes they are the temporal echoes of people who have yet to enter her and her father’s lives, and so she harbors a benevolent attitude towards them; Charles Darnay seems to have a bit of a more snarky attitude towards them, not really believing that they are anything in particular, as evident in the way that he almost teases Lucie about them (being that he doesn’t seem to be able to hear them); but Sydney Carton has a more braced and paranoid attitude towards these footsteps, believing them to be of some great crowd that will crush them all beneath its feet.

“And I hear them!…Here they come, fast, fierce, furious!” (Dickens, 98). As Carton exclaims these words, Dickens attributes it all to him actually just mistaking the approaching storm for the sound of thundering footsteps. But what if this is just Dickens’ own verbal subtlety at its finest? He claims that Carton is actually hearing just a normal storm, but what if Dickens is implying that the footsteps are the storm? Carton may be the most correct one out of the three in regards to what the footsteps actually mean. The story, at this time, takes place in the calm before the storm, the years building up to the French Revolution. And, (spoiler alert), the latter part of the story will take place during the actual revolution. The footsteps that Carton hears, then, are in all likelihood the thundering approach of these revolutionaries, who are about to enter their lives in a big way.

This is not the only time that Dickens alludes to an eventual uprising of the people: when Madame DeFarge looks into the Marquis’s eyes, when the Marquis is killed, when there are multiple Jacques’s who could have killed the Marquis, and all of them are suspects, when the commoners attack the vehicles said to hold spies (this also contains a very foreshadow-y and relevant quote: “…for a crowd in those times stopped at nothing, and was a monster much dreaded.” (Dickens, 150)), etc. These commoners, Madame DeFarge, and countless other people are alluded to no doubt be a part of the thundering footsteps that belong to an enormous, bloodthirsty crowd who will eventually fall upon Lucie, Darnay, and Carton…and may claim one of their lives in the process.